


Launch a Thousand Ships

by sahiya



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Metaphysical Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:56:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not a ghost story. It's a love story. (Actually, it's both.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rabidchild67](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/gifts).



> This was written for rabidchild in the [WCpairings](http://wcpairings.livejournal.com/) exchange fest. I was so thrilled to get to write for you, RC! Thank you for everything that you do in the fandom, especially [whitecollarhc](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/). I broke a bunch of my own "will not write" rules with this because a couple of your prompts really spoke to me. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> I warned for major character death, because there is - but it's happened well in the past by the time the story starts.
> 
> The title is from [Ghost](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gjDaWolj-NE) by the Indigo Girls (and continues the somewhat bizarre nautical theme my titles have had lately).
> 
> Thanks to Yamx and via_ostiense for beta reading! And thank you as well to Kanarek13, for this wonderful cover:

Small towns were not and had never been Neal Caffrey’s thing. He was a big city guy. Big cities were art and money and nightlife. They meant noise and dirt and bright lights. They were garish and beautiful and Neal loved them. He’d spent almost his entire life in big cities. Small towns had their own charm, he supposed, but he’d never seen any reason to spend much time in them. 

Until now. 

The sun was setting by the time Neal found himself driving down Main Street in the aptly named town of Lakeside. The trip up from Manhattan had taken most of the day, and he’d followed the long eastern shoreline of the lake for nearly half an hour before finding the turn-off for the town, which lay at its northernmost tip. 

Neal had an address that he was looking for, but it was hard to read the building numbers in the dimming light. He finally parked and got out to find the place on foot. A town this size, it couldn’t be far - at least, he hoped it wasn’t. His leg had stiffened up in the car. Neal winced as he put weight on it and leaned heavily on his cane as he checked the address again. 

“Can I help you?”

Neal turned. A man was leaning out of the front door of one of the buildings. Tall and handsome, Neal couldn’t help but immediately notice, maybe ten or fifteen years older than himself. He wore blue jeans and a tan shirt that shouldn’t have looked good on him but did. A sheriff’s uniform, Neal realized, catching sight of his badge. “Maybe,” Neal said. “I’m looking for 41 Main Street.”

“You found it,” the man said, stepping out. “Are you Neal Caffrey?”

“Yes,” Neal said, relieved. “And you must be Peter Burke.”

“That’s me. Welcome to Lakeside.” They shook hands briefly. “How was the trip up from the city?”

“Long,” Neal said. “I’m glad to be here.”

“I bet. Come on in, I’ll get you the keys.” Neal followed Peter inside and found himself in what was clearly the county sheriff’s office. Neal firmly quashed the feelings of unease that inevitably sprang up in the presence of law enforcement, souvenirs of his misspent youth. It’d been years now since he’d done anything more illegal than speeding, but he still had to remind himself firmly that Peter Burke had no reason to arrest him for anything. He was a taxpaying citizen renting a house. He’d done nothing wrong.

A big yellow Lab got up from his bed in the corner and ambled over to say hello. Neal set his cane aside and bent down to pet him while Peter rummaged around in a desk drawer. “Good dog,” Neal said, scratching him behind the ears. “Is he yours?” he added, looking up at Peter. 

“Yeah, he’s mine. His name is Satchmo.”

“Good name,” Neal said, standing. “Do you like old jazz, then?”

“No,” Peter said shortly. Neal raised his eyebrows. “My wife did.” 

Neal wasn’t sure what to say to that. The past tense - and Peter’s tone - told him he’d just put his foot in something unpleasant, but whether that was a nasty divorce or something worse, he didn’t know. “I see,” he said.

Peter cleared his throat. “These are the keys to the house,” he said, handing them over to Neal. “It’s a bit hard to find if you’ve never been there before. My deputy, Diana, will be back in a few minutes. She can take you out there if you don’t mind waiting.”

“Sure,” Neal said. “Thanks. Is there anywhere for me to get some coffee in the meantime?”

“Across the street at June’s,” Peter said. “Nothing fancy, no espresso or anything like that, but it’ll keep you up at night.”

Neal nodded. “Perfect.” He pocketed the keys and left, to Satchmo’s palpable disappointment. Outside, full dark had fallen; Neal felt the familiar nervousness prickling at him. But Main Street was well lit, and the diner Peter had pointed out was only just across the street. Nothing would happen to him here, Neal told himself, in this sleepy little town. There probably hadn’t been a real crime in Lakeside in years. 

The outside of June’s Diner wasn’t anything to write home about - the first E in the sign was flickering, and it needed a new coat of paint - but the inside looked brand new. More importantly, the smells coming from the kitchen reminded Neal that he hadn’t eaten since lunch. His leg wouldn’t much like him sitting at the counter, so he slid into a booth. The woman behind the counter, June herself by her nametag, brought him a menu. “Welcome to Lakeside,” she said with a smile. “Soup of the day is broccoli-cheddar and the pie is apple-cranberry. Everything’s homemade.”

Neal smiled at her. “By you?”

She laughed. “Good heavens, no. We’d have been out of business in a week if I were the one in the kitchen. I stick to what I’m good at. My son-in-law’s the one in the kitchen.”

Neal immediately liked her. There was something about her that reminded him of the society women he often had to charm at gallery events, but there was also something comfortable and _kind_ about her as well. Neal wondered who she’d been before she’d opened this diner. “Never a bad plan,” he said, and offered her his hand. “Neal Caffrey.”

“June Ellington,” she said, returning his handshake firmly. “Are you passing through on your way to Rochester?”

“No, actually,” Neal said. “I’m going to be here a while. I’m renting a house on the lake for at least a month.”

“Really? This time of year?” 

Neal shrugged. “I needed some time away from the city, and your sheriff had a house to rent.” 

“Ah,” June said. “Yes, that’s right, Peter mentioned he was renting the house out. Well, it’ll be good for the place to have someone in it. It’s been empty too long. Would you like a few minutes with the menu?”

“That’s okay. I’d like a cup of soup, a piece of pie, and coffee, please,” he said, without thinking too much about it. 

“Good choice,” June said, scribbling it down. 

Neal’s soup had just arrived when the bell over the door went off, signaling another customer. Neal glanced up, half-expecting Peter’s deputy Diana, but it was the man himself, now clearly off-duty. He wore a flannel shirt, a jacket and an old, weathered baseball hat. To Neal’s surprise, he came over. “Mind if I sit down?”

Neal shook his head. “Be my guest.” 

June brought him a cup of coffee. “Good evening, Peter,” she said, smiling. “How are you?”

“Can’t complain. I see you’ve met our new guest.”

“I have. Can I get you anything to eat?”

“Nah, I’m okay, thanks.”

“Well, let me know if you change your mind,” she said, and went to refill someone else’s coffee cup at the far end of the counter. 

“So,” Peter said after a moment or two of silence, “Neal Caffrey. I looked you up, you know.” Neal glanced at him sharply, and Peter shrugged, unapologetic. “Someone’s going to be renting my house, living in my town for a month or more, I like to know who they are.”

Neal nodded. He supposed Peter wouldn’t have been a very good sheriff otherwise. “And what did you find?”

“Found your website with your art. Liked your photography. Thought your sculptures look like piles of scrap metal.”

Neal smiled. Peter wasn’t the first person he’d met to have that reaction about his sculptures. He was used to it by now. Fortunately for him, there were plenty of people who disagreed with Peter. “They’re postmodern.” 

Peter shrugged. “My wife knew a lot more about that sort of thing than I do. I don’t get it, never have. But you do know how to take a picture. And I liked some of your paintings, too.”

“Thanks,” Neal said, oddly flattered. He swallowed. “What else did you find?”

“Found your gallery website. You do pretty well for yourself, it seems.”

Neal shrugged. “That’s mostly my business partner. I provided the start-up capital, Moz keeps it running.” He took a gulp of coffee to steady his nerves before asking, “Anything else?”

Peter nodded. “The newspaper articles about your mugging. That sounds like a hell of a thing.”

Neal shrugged. “Happens to people every day in New York.”

“But not to you,” Peter said. Neal shook his head. “I take it that’s why you’re here.”

“Yup,” Neal said, shortly. He didn’t say that he found himself frightened now of the only place he’d ever really called home, that dark alleys and underground tunnels gave him panic attacks. That his thigh still ached where the fifteen year old kid who’d wanted his wallet had stabbed him with a six inch kitchen knife, lacerating his femoral artery. He didn’t remember coding out in the ambulance - he’d been unconscious from blood loss by then - but he still had nightmares sometimes about how it had felt lying on the ground holding his leg while blood ran out over his fingers. He was fortunate that someone had called 911 or he’d have died on the ground. 

“Well, then,” Peter said, after a few seconds of silence, “that works out, seeing as I have a house standing empty.”

Neither of them seemed to know what to say after that. Neal finished his soup, and June brought him his slice of apple-cranberry pie. Without thinking about it too hard, Neal snagged a second fork from the set of silverware to his left and pushed it and the pie toward Peter. Peter glanced up at him, but didn’t argue, just picked up the fork and used it to break off a piece of the pie. 

“So, got any plans for while you’re here?” Peter asked. “Are prints of our town going to end up in some art gallery in Chelsea?”

“Nah, probably not,” Neal said, forcing a smile. “I haven’t been doing much art lately. I just needed to get out of the city for a while, I think.”

Peter nodded. “Best thing for you. It’s hard to get better when you’re just seeing reminders everywhere.”

“Yeah,” Neal agreed. He took one more bite of the pie, with its flakey, buttery crust, and then put his fork down. “I think I’m done. When did you say your deputy was going to get here?”

“Actually, Diana isn’t coming,” Peter said. “She got delayed, and I told her to just knock off for the night. I’ll take you out to the house myself.”

He sounded so grimly determined that Neal was compelled to object. “I’m sure I could find my way.”

“I’m not,” Peter replied. “No offense to you, but it’s hard to find, like I said. I’ll just see you there and then walk back.”

“In the dark?” Neal asked dubiously. 

“Done it before. But let’s go before it gets any later.”

Neal paid his check and found out what time June’s opened for breakfast in the morning, seeing as he wouldn’t be able to go to the store until the next day. Then he followed Peter out of the diner and back to his car. Peter climbed in on the passenger side, and Neal slid in beside him, behind the wheel. “Okay,” Neal said, starting the engine. “Where to?”

Neal was glad, in the end, that Peter had insisted on accompanying him out to the house. It wasn’t far - Peter’s walk back to town would be dark, but not very long - but the road that Neal had to take once he left the highway was unmarked, and he would have missed two more turnoffs on increasingly narrow roads if Peter hadn’t pointed them out. But at last they pulled up outside a two story house. There was a light burning over the road here, shining off the water as it lapped at the shore.

“Well, this is it,” Peter said as they got out of the car. “The electricity and everything is on, but do you have a flashlight?” Neal held one up that he’d dug out of the glove compartment. “Good. If you need anything, just call. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“I’m sure,” Neal said, then added, just as Peter started to turn away, “Nothing else I should know?”

Peter turned back. He looked up at the house, and Neal saw the shadow of a terrible sadness - no, of grief - pass over his face. Not a nasty divorce, Neal suddenly knew, with complete certainty. “Take care of her, all right?” he said at last, and turned away, back down the road. 

Neal hadn’t brought much with him, but it was still a struggle with his cane to drag his single suitcase of clothing and another of art supplies up the front steps to the house. He wrestled them inside, then started looking for a light switch. He found one easily, and yellow light flooded the downstairs area. There were two bedrooms down here, Neal found, both of them made up, but they looked like guest rooms. He left the luggage where it was for now, and thumped upstairs, where he found the kitchen and the living room, and then finally, through a door on the left, the master bedroom. 

No one had cleaned this room out in anticipation of renting the house. It was tidy, the bed neatly made and with none of the usual detritus of a lived-in bedroom. But the walls were still covered in framed photographs, and the closet, when Neal opened it, was full of women’s clothes. Peter’s wife, whoever she had been, had had good taste, and she certainly hadn’t spent her entire adult life in Lakeside, judging by the some of the tailored suits she’d owned. She’d been very beautiful, too, Neal thought, drawn despite himself to an 8x10 framed photo of Peter with a dark-haired, blue-eyed woman draped over his shoulder. And she’d had a knock-out smile.

He couldn’t possibly sleep in here. Neal closed the door to the master bedroom behind him, sparing one last glance over his shoulder at it. He went downstairs to put his things in the nicest of the two guest rooms, the one with two large windows. 

By the time he finished putting everything away, it was after eleven. Neal was exhausted from traveling all day, but Moz had left him two voicemails already, wanting to know that he was all right. Neal rolled his eyes at his friend’s paranoia, but he supposed he couldn’t blame him under the circumstances. He went back upstairs and opened the sliding glass door that led onto the deck. It overhung the water, which was black and murmuring gently on this moonless night. 

It was almost too chilly to be comfortable, but Neal sat in one of the deck chairs to call Moz. 

“About time,” his friend greeted him. “I was about to report you missing.”

Neal suppressed a smile. “I don’t think the cops will file a missing persons report if someone’s only been gone eight hours.”

“Who said anything about the cops?” Moz replied, and then went on before Neal could react, “So, what’s it like? Is it awful?”

“It’s not awful,” Neal said firmly. “The town is small, but the people seem friendly. And the house is nice. There’s enough room for you to come visit, if you want. You could bring Sally.”

Moz shuddered. “All that nature. Bugs. Dirt. Raccoons.”

“I’m just saying, it’s an open invitation,” Neal said. He wouldn’t push Moz into coming if he didn’t want to, though he hoped he would; the solitude was going to get to him at some point, and probably sooner than later. “How’s the show doing?”

“Very well. You’ve sold three so far.”

“Nice. Thanks, Moz.”

“Don’t thank me, you do all the work.”

“Yeah, and without you it’d just sit in storage somewhere.”

“About that,” Moz said carefully. “I know we haven’t talked business much, and you have a backlog of pieces that’ll probably last you six months, but -”

“I’m working on it,” Neal said shortly. Moz thought of him sometimes as the eccentric artist who had to be managed, but the truth was that Neal knew exactly how many pieces he had and how much each of them was likely to sell for. Six months was optimistic if he didn’t start working again. 

“Okay. Let me know if I can help, all right?”

“Of course. Take care, Moz.”

“You, too, _mon frere_.”

Neal disconnected, then sat on the deck, listening to the water lapping at the shore below. A wave of sadness suddenly came over him, a tightening in his chest and throat, as he thought about everything he had lost since the mugging, everything he was so afraid he would never get back. He couldn’t help but worry that he’d changed somehow, and he wouldn’t be able to change back. That the person he had been was gone. He didn’t know who he’d be without his art, without New York, but he wouldn’t be Neal Caffrey. He wouldn’t be the man he’d chosen to be ten years ago. He’d have to reinvent himself - something he knew he was more than capable of, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that he didn’t _want_ to. He liked who he was. Who he had been, before the mugging. 

The sadness lifted as suddenly as it had come over him. Neal rubbed a hand over his chest. He was just tired, he decided, from traveling all day. That was all. Tomorrow would be better. He went inside, turned off the upstairs lights, and went to bed. 

***

Everything did seem brighter and better when he woke early the next morning. Neal showered, dressed, and then considered the rest of his day. He was supposed to walk regularly as part of his physical therapy, and he thought a stroll into town would be just about right. 

Carefully, then, he retraced the route he and Peter had come the night before. He got breakfast at June’s, the fluffiest pancakes and lightest scrambled eggs he’d ever eaten. It seemed like half the town was there, as well, and Neal knew he was an object of some scrutiny. It wasn’t summer anymore, and he was probably the only tourist left. He ate his breakfast while reading the diner’s only copy of _The New York Times_ and ignored the curious stares. 

After breakfast he ambled over to the single grocery store in town and bought a few staples. He thought he’d eat in town once a day - the food at June’s was good, and he didn’t want to get too isolated out at the house - but he wanted some things on hand. Afterward, he headed back up the road toward the house. 

He was almost out of town when a car with the word SHERIFF emblazoned across the side pulled up next to him. Neal stopped, and the driver’s side window rolled down. “Hi there,” the woman behind the wheel said. “You must be Neal Caffrey.”

“And you must be Peter’s deputy, Diana,” Neal guessed. 

“Got it in one. Want a lift?”

Neal thought about refusing, but the truth was that his leg had started to ache. “Sure,” he said. He put his single grocery bag in the back seat and slid in beside Diana, settling his cane alongside his leg.

“So, how are you liking our sleepy little town?” Diana asked as they continued down the highway. 

“Well, I haven’t been here very long,” Neal said, “but I like it so far.” He glanced at her. “Did you grow up here?”

Diana laughed. “Hardly. No, I’m an old friend of Peter’s. I was his probie when he worked for the FBI.”

Neal’s eyebrows shot up. “Peter worked for the FBI?”

Diana hummed in affirmation. “Yup. White Collar division - insurance fraud, bond forgeries, art crimes, that sort of thing. He was good, too.”

“Why’d he leave?” 

“He got injured on the job - shot in the shoulder. It wasn’t life-threatening, but he couldn’t get the range of motion back that he needed to pass his physical for field work. He could’ve ridden a desk for the rest of his career, and probably done fairly well for himself, but that’s not Peter Burke.” This last was said with a smile, mostly fond and, to Neal’s eye, faintly exasperated. “He got this job, and he and Elizabeth moved up here. Surprised the hell out of everyone, including Elizabeth.”

“And he brought you along?” Neal said. 

“Not then. I came later.” Diana glanced at him sideways. “I don’t suppose anyone has told you yet, but Peter lost his wife about a year ago.”

“I figured that out,” Neal said. “There are a lot of pictures of them still at the house.”

Diana sighed, adjusting her hands on the steering wheel. Neal thought that Diana had probably known Peter’s wife well and had liked her. “Yeah, Peter moved into town right after it happened. I know he had someone go in and clean last week, so it wouldn’t be dusty when you arrived, but he hasn’t been back himself in over a year.” Neal nodded. He’d guessed as much, from the house’s abandoned, unused feel. 

“Anyway,” Diana added, “there’s not a lot of sheriffing to do around here, but it was clear after Elizabeth died that Peter wasn’t handling things very well. He needed some help. So I took a leave of absence from the FBI and came up to give him a hand.” She shrugged. “I keep meaning to go back, but I never seem to get around to it.”

Neal nodded. “He seems like he’s doing all right now. I mean, not that I’d really know.”

Diana smiled sadly. “He’s doing better. Elizabeth was . . . well, I don’t believe that there’s someone out there for each of us or any crap like that, but sometimes, you know, you meet a couple and they just work so well, even though on paper they shouldn’t, and you think, _Those two would’ve ended up together, any time, any place, no matter what_. That was Peter and El.”

“Losing that must have been awful,” Neal said, quietly. 

“It almost killed him,” Diana said, matter-of-factly. She drew a deep breath. “So what about you?” she asked, as they turned onto an even smaller country lane. “Girlfriend, boyfriend, what?”

“None of the above,” Neal said. “I asked someone to marry me once.”

“And?”

Neal shrugged. It still hurt sometimes to think of Kate. “She said no. You?”

Diana shook her head. “Someone asked me to marry her once.”

“And?”

“I said no.”

“Ah.” 

“Yup.” Diana came to a stop in front of the house, and Neal climbed out and got his groceries out of the back of the car. 

“Thanks for the lift,” Neal said to Diana through the open window

“No problem. But listen, I have to confess that I did have a slight ulterior motive. I was hoping you might be able to do me a small favor this evening.” Neal raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. “Peter eats dinner at June’s every night around 6:30. I usually join him, so he doesn’t have to eat alone, but I have to go into Rochester tonight. I was hoping you might join him instead.”

“I suppose I could,” Neal said, only a little dubiously. 

“Great, thanks. I recommend you try the burger, it’s better than anything I ever had in the city.” With that, Diana rolled her window up, did a three point turn, and headed off up the road. 

Neal put his groceries away, then stood on the deck and contemplated the afternoon. He had over five hours to kill. In the city, before his mugging, that would have been a deliciously long stretch of time to really sink his teeth into a sculpture or a painting, or to spend in his darkroom. Here, he wasn’t sure what to do with it. 

“Well,” he said aloud, “I guess it’s time to eat lunch.”

He packed a sandwich, some fruit, and a soda in a bag, and, after some hesitation, grabbed a sketchbook, before heading down to the dock that belonged to the house. He thought about taking out the rowboat that was tied up there, but the idea was a little intimidating; he decided to leave it for another day. The water was too cold to dangle his feet in comfortably, he found out the hard way, so he sat with his injured leg stretched out before him and his sketchpad resting on his other thigh as he ate his lunch and looked out across the water. 

He started out trying to sketch the shoreline, but the opposite shore was too far away for him to see very well, and he’d never been much for landscapes. He turned the page, then, and just doodled for a bit, not thinking very much about what he was drawing, mostly losing himself in the scratch of pencil on paper, the sun on his shoulders, the quiet sounds of the water. He had no idea how long he’d been at it when he realized that he was, in fact, drawing a portrait of Peter Burke. 

He looked down at it. “Huh,” he said. That was interesting. 

It should have probably worried him more, but the truth was that it was the first thing he’d drawn in months that he hadn’t wanted to immediately crumple up and burn. It wasn’t great art - it certainly wasn’t something he could sell - but it was _something_. He worked on it a bit longer, adding details here and there as he remembered them. Peter had a handsome face, not very striking at first, but one that grew on you. And sad eyes. Or maybe Neal was just projecting, knowing now what he did about the man. 

He wondered how Elizabeth Burke had died. Diana hadn’t said, and it’d felt unseemly to ask. The woman in the photos in the house looked healthy enough, but they could have been taken years ago, for all he knew. 

He could have stayed out longer, but his leg began protesting the position. He went inside and took an afternoon nap, because there was, after all, no reason not to. He woke a little after five and lay on his bed for a few minutes, listening to the lake lapping at the shore just beneath his window, before getting up. 

It was almost time by then for him to get ready to go into town for dinner. He showered and changed his clothes, feeling ridiculous even as he did so. This was not, after all, a date. He didn’t put a suit on, of course - he hadn’t even brought any of his suits - but he did put on a fresh pair of jeans and a button down he knew brought out his eyes. 

He decided that doing that walk twice in one day was probably pushing things too far with his leg, so he drove instead. He got to June’s a couple minutes before 6:30 and seated himself in the same booth as the night before, where he could keep one eye on the door. June gave him a wink and a smile, which made Neal think that she was in on Diana’s plan, or at least understood what was going on. 

Peter came in at exactly 6:30. He looked rumpled and weary, and he strode up to the counter without so much as glancing at Neal. June said something to him, nodding over toward Neal. Peter frowned, but June merely smiled, quietly insistent. Peter gave in without further argument and strode over to Neal’s table, menu in hand. 

“Contrary to popular belief around here,” Peter said to him, “I can eat dinner by myself without the world ending.”

Neal did his best to look innocent. “I don’t know what you mean, Peter. But you’re welcome to sit if you’d like.” Peter frowned. Neal shrugged. “No reason for us both to eat on our own.”

“I guess.” Peter dropped down into the seat across from him and set the menu on the table, though Neal though he must have had it memorized by now. “How was your first day? Is everything at the house all right?”

“Yeah, the house is great,” Neal said. “It’s beautiful out there.”

“It is,” Peter agreed, voice tinged with regret. “I should probably sell the place, but I just can’t bring myself to give it up.”

“Well, I for one am glad you didn’t.”

June brought over a pint of beer for Peter. “Anything to drink for you, Neal?” she asked, pulling her pad out. 

“Just water, thanks.” He wasn’t much of a beer drinker; there was wine listed on the menu, but the selection was limited to “red” and “white,” and Neal decided it was best not to try. 

“Are you boys ready to order then?” June asked, pen poised. 

Neal had barely glanced at the menu, but he decided to go with Diana’s recommendation. “I’d like the burger, medium rare, with a side salad instead of the fries.”

“I’ll have the turkey club,” Peter said.

June eyed him. “Also with a side salad instead of the fries?”

Peter sighed. “Yes, fine, with a side salad.”

“Very good.” She took their menus and left. 

“Aww,” Neal said with a smile, “that’s sweet.”

“It’s annoying,” Peter muttered over the rim of his beer glass. But then he shook his head. “I shouldn’t complain. June and Diana have both been wonderful to me, even when my behavior didn’t deserve it.”

Neal smiled. “I know what you mean. After the mugging, I don’t think I’d have ever left my apartment again if it weren’t for Moz.”

Peter nodded. A somewhat awkward silence fell, and Neal cast his mind about for something to talk about. Something that didn’t have to do with his mugging or Peter’s late wife, for preference. “So,” he said after a moment, “what do people do for fun in this town?”

Peter shrugged. “There’s the movies,” he said. “We get two a week, plus they show classics on Friday nights. And the local community theater is doing _Steel Magnolias_ next month. Anything else, Rochester’s only an hour away.”

Neal blinked. He’d known Lakeside was small, but somehow he hadn’t realized exactly what that would mean. “Doesn’t that get a bit old?”

“Winter’s long,” Peter admitted. “But I like it here. It’s home now.”

“You ever think about moving back to the city?” Neal couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, even if right now it scared the hell out of him. Lakeside was a stopover, not a final destination. 

“Sometimes,” Peter admitted. “I think El - my wife, I mean, wanted to, someday. But it’s nice here. Quiet. I haven’t had a gun pointed at me in years. El did like that about living here.”

Neal supposed that was an advantage. “So what’s the classic movie showing this week?” 

“They’ve been doing screwball comedies from the 1930s the last few weeks,” Peter said. “I think it’s _His Girl Friday._ ”

“Do you ever go?”

“Usually. Unless something comes up.”

Neal nodded. “Maybe I’ll see you there, then,” he said. He was hoping he would, he realized suddenly. There was something about Peter Burke - reticent, sad, not overly friendly Peter Burke - that intrigued him. He wanted to know more. 

June brought their food, then. Neal waited until she’d placed their orders in front of each of them, along with Neal’s water, and left. He speared some lettuce on his fork and said, “So, what’s it like being sheriff in Lakeside? Got any good stories?”

Peter did, as Neal had hoped, and by the end of the meal, with a second beer in him, he was markedly less reticent. It was mostly the tourists who got themselves into trouble, he said. Nine months out of the year he had nothing to do except scold teenagers who got caught drinking beer or smoking weed in the park, but during the summer he and Diana spent most of their time out in the sheriff’s boat on the lake, trying to keep tourists from finding new and inventive ways to kill themselves. Neal told an amusing anecdote or two as well, about Mozzie and the hipster artists they had to deal with at the gallery, and by the end of the meal Peter had even cracked a smile. Neal tried to memorize it so he could sketch it later. 

“Do you need a ride back?” Peter asked as they left June’s.

“No, I drove, thanks,” Neal said, almost wishing he hadn’t. “Have a good night.”

“You, too,” Peter said with a smile, and they parted ways. 

***

Over the next few days, Neal slowly settled into a routine. On mornings he woke early enough, he walked into town for breakfast, often joining Peter; if he slept later, he had breakfast on the deck. The fall foliage was deepening, the leaves starting to drift off the trees. In a couple weeks, he knew, the nights would start to drop below freezing, and the mornings might be too cold for him to eat outside. But for now he enjoyed it. 

During the day he read and sketched, branching out from portraits of Peter to portraits of other people in town. June’s face was expressive and beautiful, but there was a sadness to her as well that he discovered only when he sketched her. He tried to paint, but it was hard to think past the voice in the back of his head reminding him that if he didn’t work through this, he’d lose his livelihood. The gallery did well enough, but it was his own artwork that kept him in a certain lifestyle. The sketches weren’t much more than any tourist could buy from a street artist. So he kept at the painting, even when it didn’t feel right, even when every brushstroke was painful, and lied through his teeth to Mozzie every night about how quickly things were getting better. Neal wasn’t sure whether Moz believed him or not, but he didn’t press him or ask him when he’d be back.

Most evenings, especially if he hadn’t made it in for breakfast, Neal walked into town to join Peter for dinner. Sometimes Diana was there as well, if she hadn’t gone to Rochester for the evening to see her girlfriend. His leg grew stronger by the day, but exercise wasn’t the only reason he made the trip. He found himself anticipating an hour or two of talking with Peter in the comfortable ambience of June’s. It was a good way to meet the other people in Lakeside, too, since Peter knew everyone and everyone knew him. 

It was more than that, though. There was something about Peter Burke that drew Neal in. It wasn’t anything that Neal could define to himself; the man was handsome, certainly, and Neal liked him personally, but Neal knew himself well enough to know that that wasn’t all of it. But there was no sign that his feelings were returned - no sign that Peter was interested at all in men that way, and even if he had been he was clearly still mourning his wife - and so Neal kept a lid on his own feelings. It’d been some time since he’d had a hopeless crush. It was a harmless distraction, he told himself. He decided to enjoy it for what it was. 

Neal had been in Lakeside for a little over a week when he returned to the house one evening after dinner. He was a little buzzed; it turned out that the “white” and “red” designations belied a surprisingly good wine selection at June’s, and he’d had a glass or two while Peter had his usual beer. The house was very dark; Neal had forgotten to leave a light on, and the dark out here wasn’t like the dark in his apartment in the city, where light from the street meant that it was never really too dark to see where he was going. He let himself in and fumbled for a light switch, bemused by his own unease. Once the lights were on, of course it seemed ridiculous. He shook his head and went upstairs to make a cup of tea before bed. 

He was restless, not quite ready to sleep. Getting drunk with Peter was a dangerous proposition, it seemed. There’d been a moment after they’d walked out of June’s when he’d thought about throwing caution to the wind and kissing him, just to see what happened. Ten years ago he probably would have, and even now part of him wished that he had. But Lakeside was proving to be just the haven he needed, and he couldn’t risk losing that now. 

He found himself pacing the living room while the kettle heated up. He felt jumpy, on edge, in a way he hadn’t felt since his first night here. As though his skin didn’t fit right. It was only when he found himself in front of the door to the master bedroom that he felt himself settle, a strange feeling of rightness stealing over him. 

Neal hesitated. He’d told himself he wouldn’t go back in there. It was too private, clearly not meant for him, even if Peter had never said a word about it being out of bounds. But now he found that he couldn’t help himself. He turned the knob and went inside. 

He didn’t know what he’d expected, but nothing had changed from his first night in the house. There was still the meticulously made bed, the pictures on the walls, the closet full of women’s clothing. Neal sat down on the bed to look at the photos, thinking about what Diana had said about Elizabeth and Peter Burke. A wave of sadness came over him, for everything he had lost, everything Peter had lost, and all the days that should have come, the life he would never get to live . . .

He blinked, shaking himself, then sat up, a chill slowly making its way down his spine. _The life he would never get to live?_

He was suddenly and inexplicably certain that that thought hadn’t been his. 

He shot off the bed and looked around, his heart pounding in his chest. There was nothing to see, of course. Nothing to suggest that he wasn’t alone. But he knew he wasn’t. He could feel it. 

He swallowed. “Elizabeth?” he said quietly. The only reply was the wind rattling a branch against the window. Neal’s chest tightened, and now there was fear as well as sadness, fear making his breath come short. He was trapped, trapped with no way out -

The tea kettle whistled, breaking the spell. Neal startled and then quickly, without allowing himself to think about it, left the room, shutting the door firmly behind himself. Whatever he’d felt in the bedroom didn’t follow him out here, or so Neal told himself as he went about making his tea. His pulse slowed and the panicky feeling in his chest didn’t develop into an actual panic attack as he’d feared. But he couldn't shake the feeling he’d had, and he couldn’t quite succeed in convincing himself that it’d all been in his head. He didn’t even _believe_ in ghosts; there was no reason for his mind to create one for him. 

There was only one person Neal could talk to about this. He waited until he was downstairs, tucked in bed with his tea, and then he called Moz. 

Moz had apparently had a day. He spent ten minutes ranting to Neal about the catering company he’d hired for the show that was opening in two days. Neal half-listened, enough to at least make noises in the right places, but he was mostly trying to figure out what he could say to Moz that wouldn’t make him think he’d lost his mind. But then Moz said something that almost made him spill his tea.

“What?” Neal said, sitting up. “What’d you just say?”

“I said, it’s times like these that I really miss Burke Premier Events. They’re the company I used to use, but about five or six years ago the woman who owned it sold the business and moved upstate with her husband. I haven’t found anyone as competent since then.”

More likely, Neal knew, Moz just hadn’t found anyone willing to put up with his own special brand of crazy. “The woman who owned Burke Premier Events - Moz, do you remember her name?”

“Of course I remember her name,” Moz said, clearly insulted. “I have perfect recall, remember? It was Elizabeth. Elizabeth Burke.”

Neal’s head spun. “Do you remember anything else about her? Or about her husband?”

“He was a fed,” Moz said. “That’s all I know. But I liked her anyway. Why? Neal, what’s going on? You sound weird.”

“Nothing, it’s just - I think I’m renting a house from Elizabeth Burke’s husband.”

“Really?” Moz said. “If I believed in coincidences, I’d say that was a strange one. How is she? Any chance she might move back to the city and let me fire these idiots?”

Neal swallowed. “Not really, Moz. She died about a year ago.”

“Oh,” Moz said. He was quiet for a moment. “That’s a shame. I liked her.”

“Seems everyone else did, too,” Neal said. 

“She was young. What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Neal said. “I was actually calling to see if Sally might find out for me.”

“I’m sure she could,” Moz said. “But can’t you just ask someone?”

“Yeah, probably,” Neal said, “but I’d prefer not to.”

Neal could _hear_ Moz frowning through the phone. “Neal, what’s going on? And don’t lie to me, I’ll know.”

Neal rolled his eyes. “I like Peter Burke.”

“Uh huh. How _much_ do you like Peter Burke?”

“I like him a lot, all right? And I feel bad that he’s lost his wife and can’t stand living in his own house.”

There was a beat of silence. “And?” Mozzie prompted. 

“And nothing.”

“And something. Out with it.”

Neal sighed. “And . . . I had a bit of weird experience just now.” Quickly, and without feeling too much like an idiot, he told Moz what had happened upstairs. If anyone would believe him, it was Moz. He believed far crazier things, after all. “I think it might be second time it’s happened,” he added. “The first night, I was sitting out on the deck and I was suddenly just . . . really sad. And then it was gone.”

“But you didn’t feel angry or vengeful or -”

“No,” Neal said. “I felt sad and lonely and afraid and - and trapped.” 

“It might not be all her, you know,” Mozzie said, carefully. “Something terrible happened to you, Neal. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were feeling some of those things.” 

“I know,” Neal said. He wondered if perhaps that was part of it, why he could feel her so clearly. He’d never shown any signs of being sensitive to this sort of thing before. He’d never even really believed in this sort of thing before. But he found himself believing now, with a vengeance. “But it wasn’t me, all right? I know the difference. Tonight I thought - I remember feeling really sad for all the days I wouldn’t get to live. That doesn’t make any sense for me. I’m still here. _I didn’t die._ ” He stopped, taking a deep breath. That last had come out more forcefully than he’d intended. 

“Actually,” Moz said quietly, “you did. Not for very long, but you did die, Neal.”

Neal swallowed. “Do you think that has something to do with this? Why I can feel her?”

“Probably,” Moz said. “Very probably. You didn’t die, but you came close enough. And she did die, but she didn’t move on.”

Neal was silent for a moment. “You really believe me, don’t you. You don’t think I’m crazy or - or imagining things.”

“Neal, I’m almost insulted. _There are stranger things in heaven and earth, Horatio . . ._ ”

“Yeah, okay, okay,” Neal said, rolling his eyes but feeling relieved at the same time, and grateful, so grateful, for Moz’s friendship. Most people would’ve laughed at him, or told him to see a shrink. But Moz just believed him. He took a deep breath. “But that still doesn’t help me figure out what to do. It’s sort of - well, it’s kind of freaking me out.”

“Only two things you can do,” Mozzie said. “You can leave the house or you can try and help her.”

Neal frowned. “Help her how?”

“Well, it doesn’t sound like she’s angry, but if she can’t move on then there’s probably a reason. Did she have any unfinished business?”

“How the hell would I know?” Neal asked. “I never met the woman.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Look, will you ask Sally to look into this? I’ll see what I can do on this end.”

“Yeah, I’ll ask her. Shouldn’t be a problem, it’s just hacking some hospital files. But listen, I have this friend -”

“Of course you do,” Neal sighed.

“- well, he’s more of an acquaintance by proxy - but he has equipment for this sort of thing. You want me to come up there? Once the show opens at the gallery, I can probably take a few days.”

Despite himself, Neal gave it a few seconds’ thought. “Not yet,” he said at last.

To his relief, Moz didn’t argue. “All right, but if you change your mind -”

“I’ll let you know. Thanks, Moz.” Neal disconnected, then sat in bed holding his phone. Moz didn’t think he was going crazy or imagining things, but then again, that was Moz. Neal didn’t know how sure he was himself that he wasn’t just imagining things. Moz was right: something terrible had happened to him, and he’d been jumpy and on edge ever since. His therapist would probably say that he was displacing his own anxiety onto a woman he’d never met, with whom, for whatever reason, he felt a sort of kinship. And maybe that was exactly what was happening. 

He was too tired to parse it all out right now. Instead of trying, he read in bed until he found himself nodding off over his novel a little after ten. Somewhat to his surprise, he slept easily; despite everything, he didn’t feel unsafe, just unnerved. 

He woke early the next morning and found a text message from Moz, sent at about 4:30 in the morning. _It was a brain aneurysm_ , it said, _or so the coroner’s report claimed._ It was just like Moz to insert that caveat, Neal thought, sitting up in bed, but he couldn’t imagine how anyone could fake a brain aneurysm - though he supposed it was possible to bribe a coroner. All the same, there was nothing about this to make him suspect that Elizabeth Burke _hadn’t_ died of a brain aneurysm. Possibly in this very house.

That thought would take some getting used to. Neal got up, showered, and decided it was a good morning for breakfast in town.

It was a lovely, cool fall morning. In the last ten days, Neal had learned a bit more about the geography of the area, and he knew now that there was a more scenic pedestrian alternative to the main road, a path that ran along the edge of the lake for half a mile before cutting across the hills. The uneven ground was not ideal for walking with his cane, but his leg was doing well enough now that it wasn’t as much of a problem. Besides, it was the perfect morning for it, the lake utterly silent and still, its surface smooth as glass.

There were a few people in June’s, drinking coffee and eating breakfast. None of them was Peter, but it was only a little after seven, and he didn’t usually come in for breakfast until 7:15. Neal slid into what he’d started to think of as his usual booth and laid his cane across the seat beside him. June came to take his order, and Neal ordered coffee and scrambled eggs with wheat toast. When she returned with his coffee, she handed him _The New York Times_. Usually she left him alone after that, but today she lingered.

“Everything all right, June?” Neal finally asked, when she continued to hover.

“I hope so, dear,” June said. “I just wanted to say that it’s good to see Peter laugh again. I haven’t seen that in some time.”

Neal nodded. He’d noticed that himself, that Peter seemed to be smiling and laughing more. He liked to think he’d played some small role in that, but he couldn’t tell what was real and what was lovesick hopefulness on his part. 

“All the same,” June went on, “I do hope you’ll be careful.”

Neal frowned. “Careful how?”

“You seem like a very nice young man. I’d hate for you to get your heart broken - or to break Peter’s heart without meaning to.”

Neal folded his paper up, just to have something to do with his hands. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do,” June said, but gently. “Just - be careful. Peter’s been through a lot.”

“Thanks,” Neal said, abruptly, “but I’m sure we’ll both be fine.”

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll just see about your breakfast.”

Neal read the paper while keeping one eye on the clock. At 7:16, the door opened and Peter came in. Neal glanced up, and Peter caught his eye, precipitating a sudden rush of butterflies in Neal’s stomach. Neal took a sip of coffee to try and quell them, even as Peter slid into the booth across from him. 

Neal waited until June had brought Peter his own cup of coffee. “Good morning,” he said then, and didn’t take it personally when Peter only grunted from behind his cup. It took Peter a while to get going in the morning. 

“You’re here early,” Peter managed, after a couple of sips.

Neal shrugged. “I was up with the birds, and it seemed like a good morning for a walk. It’s beautiful out.”

Peter glanced outside as though he hadn’t noticed. Neal wondered if he sleep-walked from his place to June’s every morning. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Neal’s breakfast arrived shortly afterward, along with Peter’s usual cream of wheat with a side of fresh fruit. Peter perked up a bit after his first cup of coffee, and they ate and chatted easily about nothing in particular; as usual, Neal was aware of Peter across from him, their legs not quite touching beneath the table, aware of his warmth and his masculinity. Neal had always been attracted to both men and women, but he’d mostly dated women in recent memory; it had been years since he’d found himself reacting to a man as he did to Peter, having to fight the urge to touch him, to let their knees brush against each other or their hands find each other on the table top.

At eight o’clock, Peter stood up and pulled his wallet out of his pocket. “Well, I should be going.”

“Hey, I was thinking,” Neal said suddenly. Peter stopped and looked at him. “Do you ever go fishing? I’ve never been. I saw you have a rowboat out at the house. What would you think about taking it out sometime?”

Peter looked at him. “Sure, I guess.”

“How’s Saturday for you?”

“All right,” Peter said. “Though I’d prefer if we went a bit later - the fishing won’t be as good, but I like to sleep in on weekends when I can.”

Neal nodded. “Come out whenever. I’ll pack something for lunch.”

“Great,” Peter said, a flicker of a smile crossing his lips. “I’ll bring the beer.”

After he left, Neal started to turn back to his newspaper, buttering his last slice of toast to nibble as he read the Op-Eds. June came over to refill his coffee cup and gave him a pointed look. Neal felt the tips of his ears turn red. “Can I get the check?” he muttered.

“Of course,” she said, a hint of dryness in her voice. Neal paid and left with some relief. Perhaps he should avoid June’s for a few days, he thought as he swung up the street toward the grocery store. She seemed to have an uncanny knack for seeing right through him, and that was something he could do without right now. 

***

That night after dinner, Neal found himself back in the master bedroom. He thought it would probably be more reasonable to avoid it, but he kept thinking about what Mozzie had said: he could either leave the house or he could try and help her. He didn’t seem to be taking any steps toward leaving the house, so that left figuring out what it might mean to help her. 

He sat down on the bed and looked at the pictures of Elizabeth - _El_ , Peter had called her - on the walls. He closed his eyes. 

This time it wasn’t a wave of sadness that came over him, though there was some of that, too, but rather a rush of love. Not the butterflies-in-the-belly feeling he was starting to feel around Peter, but one more reminiscent of what he’d felt for Kate once: love born of long affection and knowing someone down to their bones. And then, born on that wave, loneliness, and fear and longing, too. And at the last, that terrible feeling of being trapped. 

Neal felt his breath hitch with the ache he felt in his chest, but he was more prepared for it than he had been the night before, and it didn’t send him into a near panic attack. He breathed through it and thought of Peter as he’d seen him just that morning at June’s - tired and a little grumpy. Sad, but not broken. The ache in his chest didn’t ease, as he’d hoped; it grew worse, until Neal had to swallow against an echoing ache in his throat. It was only when he opened his eyes that he realized he was crying. 

“You miss him,” he whispered. “You never got to say good-bye.” El had died, and then Peter had left, had moved into town and never come back. And she’d lingered here the entire last year, Neal thought, waiting for him to come home to her. He took a few deep breaths, each of them less shaky than the last. “I’ll do my best,” he said aloud. “I can’t promise anything. It still hurts him to be here. But I’ll try.”

He couldn’t stay there any longer. It was too much. He wiped the tears off his cheeks and left the room, closing the door firmly behind himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Neal suspected that “sleeping in” for a man like Peter Burke would still get him out to the house fairly early, and he was right. Peter showed up a little after eight, with Satchmo trotting along behind him. Neal caught sight of them coming down the road and watched from the kitchen window as Peter and Satchmo headed down to the shoreline. Peter found a stick and threw it out into the water and Satchmo splashed out, barking happily. 

Neal left off fixing lunch and headed downstairs. “Good morning!” he called, opening the door. Peter turned, just as Satchmo bounded out of the water and shook all over him. Neal laughed and made his way down toward them. “Sorry,” he said, slowing as he neared the shore. 

“That’s all right,” Peter said, looking down at his shirt. Satchmo dropped the stick at Peter’s feet and then sat, grinning a happy doggy grin, tongue lolling out. Peter picked it up and threw it again, further out this time. “Go get it, Satch!” he said, and the two of them watched Satchmo throw himself back into the water. “I hope you don’t mind I brought him,” Peter said, glancing at Neal. “He’ll be okay staying here while we’re out. But he loves the water, and he hardly got any lake time at all this summer, with us being in town.”

Neal nodded. “Not a problem. Let me just go finish packing the cooler, and we can head out.”

Getting the boat ready to be taken out was more work than Neal had anticipated; it hadn’t been used in over a year, after all, and that meant that it was full of spiders and cobwebs. Peter made Neal help him rinse it out and then wipe it down, and they still ended up lining the bottom of it with some old towels Neal dug up from the linen closet in the house. Peter offered to row, and since Neal had never done anything of the sort, he let him. It was quiet out on the lake; Neal caught sight of a sailboat zipping along in the distance, but here, in the little cove where Peter’s house was located, there wasn’t any wind. Peter got them out into the middle of the cove and cast his line out, then showed Neal how to do it. 

“Now what?” Neal asked. 

“Now, we wait,” Peter said, and pushed himself off the seat to sit in the bottom of the rowboat. He opened the cooler. “Beer?”

“It’s ten o’clock in the morning!”

“So? We’re fishing.”

Neal accepted the proffered beer dubiously. But Peter cracked his open and passed him the bottle opener, and Neal shrugged. When in Rome and all that. He opened the bottle and, after a momentary hesitation on account of the spiders, lowered himself to sit across from Peter in the boat. He reached across to tap his own bottle against Peter’s. 

They had a good view of the house from the boat. Neal watched Satchmo running back and forth, investigating every smell and marking every tree, full of canine _joie de vivre_. He grinned and glanced back at Peter to remark on it. But he’d barely drawn breath to speak when he stopped, catching sight of an expression of terrible sadness passing over Peter’s face. Neal looked away and covered by taking a long swig of beer.

He let a few minutes go by with only the sound of the water against the sides of the boat. He’d finished half his beer by the time he decided to break the silence. “It must’ve been really different, moving up here after living in the city,” he said. 

“Yeah,” Peter said. He was still watching the shore, though Neal didn’t think it was to keep an eye on Satchmo. “I grew up upstate, and El grew up in the Midwest, outside of Chicago, but Lakeside was more small town than either of us was used to.”

“You seem to like it now.” 

“I liked it from the beginning,” Peter said. “El didn’t, though. She’d had to give her business up when we moved up here, and I think - well, we made the decision together, but we moved up here for me, not for her. She worked in Rochester a few days a week, but it wasn’t the same.” He sighed and took a long draught of beer. “It grew on her, though. And she loved the house.”

“It’s a great house,” Neal said, and hesitated. “Do you think you’ll ever move back?”

Peter shook his head. He looked down at his beer bottle and started picking at the label. “I don’t know. I should try, I guess, but I can’t imagine sleeping in our bed without her.” He stirred, clearing his throat. “How about you? You painting again?”

“Sketching some,” Neal said. “Not really painting, though, no. I’m trying to give it time.” He took another sip of beer, rolling the bottle between his hands, feeling the condensation coating his fingers. “But a lot of other things are better here than they were in New York. I was having anxiety attacks, nightmares, that sort of thing.”

Peter nodded. The two of them fell silent again. After a moment, Peter reeled in his line and then recast it in a different direction. Neal did the same, then settled back, a life jacket wedged between his back and the bench seat of the boat. He and Peter were facing each other, their legs stretched out, pressing from hip to ankle. Peter’s head was tipped back, exposing the long column of his throat. Neal’s mouth went suddenly dry, and he took a few rapid sips of beer to try and wet it. 

Maybe it was the beer or maybe it was just the silence, but after a few minutes, Neal found himself clearing his throat and saying, against all better judgment, “You could . . . tell me about Elizabeth. If you want to.” Peter looked at him, and Neal shrugged, trying to play it off. “Everyone seems to have really liked her, and I thought maybe you’d want to. But if you think it’d -”

“She was beautiful,” Peter said. Neal shut his mouth. “I’m sure you’ve seen the pictures in the house.” Neal nodded. “The first time I saw her, I thought, _Wow_. I didn’t think there was any way a woman like that would give me the time of day, but she did. And I was the luckiest man in the world, and I never forgot it. Sometimes I wasn’t very good at letting her know, but I never forgot it. And she was smart, too. She had her own business, and if we hadn’t moved up here . . . well, I know it always bothered her, not knowing how well she could’ve done.”

Neal nodded. “My friend Moz knew her,” he said. Peter glanced at him sharply, and Neal shrugged. “Don’t you just love New York? He used Burke Premier Events for things at the gallery all the time. He was saying just the other night that he’s never found anyone as competent as she was.”

“Moz,” Peter said, thoughtfully. “Wait, I think El used to tell me about him. Is your friend sort of, uh -”

“Crazy?” Neal supplied. 

“Yeah.”

“Yep, that’s Moz.” 

“Huh.” Peter settled back. “Small world. She liked him. I think she called him her ‘most entertaining client’ once.”

“Definitely Moz,” Neal said with a smile. “We could’ve met back then.”

“I wish we had,” Peter said softly. “You’d have liked her. And she would’ve liked you, too,” he added with a smile. 

The two of them looked at each other, and though neither of them spoke, Neal felt as though a thousand things passed between them in that moment. He wondered if Peter was as aware of Neal’s own body as he was of Peter’s, of the warmth against his leg where nothing but two thin layers of denim separated them. He didn’t know if Peter Burke liked men, but Neal Caffrey knew enough about sexual tension to recognize it when he felt it. And yet, it wasn’t only desire; ever since he’d arrived in Lakeside, there’d been something that’d drawn him to Peter, some sense of . . . _recognition_. He’d never experienced it before, not even with Kate. He’d loved her, but she’d never been the yin to his yang. 

“Neal,” Peter said, in a low voice after a moment, and then didn’t go on. Neal swallowed, any words he might have said catching in his throat. 

Neal’s fishing line jerked, knocking against the side of the boat and startling them both. “Uh, is that a fish?” Neal asked, reaching for the rod before it could get pulled into the lake.

“Yes, Neal, that is a fish,” Peter said dryly. 

Neal looked blankly down at the rod in his hands. “What do I do?”

“You reel it in,” Peter said. Neal gaped at him, and Peter rolled his eyes. “Like this,” he said, and put his hands over Neal’s, showing him how to reel it in, until Neal, feeling rather foolish - it wasn’t _that_ hard, after all - took over. The fish fought him, but at last it came out of the water, a silvery, wriggly, very much alive fish, about eight inches long. 

“Not bad,” Peter said with approval. “Lake trout.”

“Uh,” Neal said, “what do we do now?” He hadn’t really thought this part of fishing through, it seemed. It’d mostly been an excuse to take the rowboat out and spend time with Peter. He hadn’t thought about the fact that he might have to _kill_ something. And then clean its guts out and eat it, which might actually be worse. 

“Well, that depends,” Peter said. “Do you feel like fish for dinner?” He laughed at the look on Neal’s face. “City boy. Here, I’ll take the hook out and we’ll throw it back.” A minute or so of wrestling with the fish, and then Peter threw it back. Neal watched in relief as it vanished into the depths of the lake. 

“I guess I shouldn’t fish if I don’t want to catch anything,” Neal said, setting his rod aside. 

“A decent life philosophy,” Peter agreed. “Another beer?”

“Sure,” Neal said. 

Somewhat to his relief, Peter didn’t catch anything over the next couple of hours. By noon they were both hungry and somewhat drunk, and they decided to row back to shore to eat their lunch. Satchmo had worn himself out chasing squirrels and flopped down in the shade of a big tree, and they joined him with their sandwiches and the last of the beer. 

“I missed this this summer,” Peter sighed, looking out at the lake. “Spent a lot of time on the water, but it was all work.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s not the same in the fall, but I’m happy to help you make up for lost time,” Neal said with a smile. He drained the last of his beer. “Do you want anything to drink? I was going to run up and get some water.”

“Sounds great, thanks.” 

Neal stood up and dusted himself off, then headed up to the house. He was thinking about that moment on the boat, when anything had seemed possible between himself and Peter, and he didn’t notice Satchmo following him. He didn’t notice, at least, until he opened the front door and seventy pounds of determined lab shoved its way past him and dashed up the stairs. 

“Satch!” Neal said. “Satchmo, no!” 

“Sorry,” Peter said, coming up behind him. “I guess I should’ve realized. It was his home, too.” He stopped several feet short of the door. Neal could see the muscles in his jaw clench. 

“It’s okay,” Neal said, before Peter could say anything else. “I’ve got him.” 

By the time he got to the top of the stairs, there was no sign of the dog. But the door to the master bedroom was standing open. Neal looked in to see Satchmo curled up in an impossibly small furry ball in the middle of the bed. Neal called his name, but Satch’s ears barely twitched. “Satchmo, come here, boy,” Neal said again, but Satchmo wasn’t moving. And Neal could guess why. 

He sighed. He didn’t like his chances of trying to pick up and forcibly move Satchmo by himself, especially when the dog was determined to stay. He went and sat on the bed beside him, resting his hand on top of Satchmo’s head, stroking his silky ears. Satch’s eyes were trained on something Neal couldn’t see, and as they sat there he gave a low whine. “I know, Satch,” Neal said. “She misses you, too.”

Satchmo didn’t move; he seemed glued to the bed, in fact. After a moment Neal got up and went back downstairs, where he found Peter weeding an overgrown flower bed right outside the front door. “He won’t come to me,” he said. 

Peter knelt back and looked up at him. “Where is he?”

Neal grimaced. “The master bedroom.”

“Ah,” Peter said. “Of course.” He stood up, wiping his dirty hands on his jeans. 

“What if -”

“No,” Peter said firmly. “This is - I’m being ridiculous. It’s one thing for me to not be able to sleep here, but it’s something else for me to not even be able to go inside. I can get my own damn dog.”

“Okay,” Neal said, and stepped aside to let Peter in. He followed Peter up the stairs; at the top, Peter stopped, staring around the living room as though he’d never seen it before.

“Peter,” Neal murmured, daring to place a hand on Peter’s back. 

“I’m fine,” Peter snapped, then took a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m okay.”

Neal nodded, but he stuck close behind Peter as they entered the bedroom. Satchmo was still in the middle of the bed, and he ignored Peter’s commands just as determinedly as he’d ignored Neal’s. But Neal wasn’t really listening, because the moment he’d entered - no, the moment _Peter_ had entered, with Neal right behind him - a feeling of complete desperation had come over him. Desperation and love and sadness and a frustration so profound that Neal wanted to weep with it. Neal tried to breathe evenly through the sudden storm of emotions, but it was impossible. His heart hammered in his chest, and he felt himself break out in a cold sweat.

Peter vented a sigh. “He’s not going to budge,” he said, turning to Neal. “Could you help me - Neal? Neal, hey, are you okay?” He reached out and took hold of Neal’s wrist. Neal’s whole body reacted, jerking as though he’d been shocked. Neal gasped, and Peter’s grip tightened, which _did not help_. “Neal?” Peter said again. “What’s wrong?”

“Can’t you feel her?” Neal managed. “How can you not - how can you not know? How -”

“Know what?” Peter demanded. “Neal, what the hell are you talking about?”

“El’s here,” Neal said. “Can’t you feel her?”

Peter jerked his hand away. “What?”

“She’s here. She misses you so much, she’s been waiting for you to come home to her, she never got to say good-bye, and she’s sad, she’s so sad, and she can’t move on yet, she wants -”

“Shut. Up.”

Neal froze. 

“How dare you?” Peter continued in a low, dangerous voice. “How _dare_ you? You come into my home, you become my friend, and now -”

“Peter, please,” Neal said, and now the desperation he felt wasn’t El’s at all. It was all his, because somehow, he didn’t know how, this had all gone horribly wrong. “Peter, please believe me -”

“ _No_. I know who you are, Neal Caffrey,” Peter said. “I found a few things other than your website and a couple articles about your mugging. I know who you are. You’re a liar and a thief and a conman.”

“No -”

“Yes, you are,” Peter said, in a voice that was as hard as steel. “It was a long time ago, so I thought you’d changed. I let you into my home and now - what do you want from me? What are you hoping to get out of this? What are you hoping to get from the sad schmuck with the dead wife? You running from something?”

“No,” Neal said, “I’m not running, I swear. Peter -”

“I want you out,” Peter said. “You have until tonight, but I want you _gone_. Are we clear?”

“Please -”

“ _Are we clear?_ ”

“Yes,” Neal managed through the thickness in his throat. 

Peter turned back to the bed. “Satchmo, _come_.” Satchmo didn’t move. “God _dammit_ ,” he said, and reached for the dog’s collar to try and pull him off the bed.

Satchmo yelped and snapped at him. Shocked, Peter let go. 

There was a moment of stillness in the room. Neal took a deep breath. “Peter, please listen to me.”

“No,” Peter said. “Just, _no_.”

He left. Neal listened to him run down the stairs and slam the front door. He sat down on the bed, suddenly shaky and sick. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, I tried.”

Something cold and wet nudged against his hand. He looked down and saw that Satchmo was pushing his nose into his palm, laying his head on Neal’s lap. Neal wrapped his arms around him and buried his face in his fur, suddenly exhausted. He lay down, one arm draped around Satchmo, and closed his eyes.

He woke hours later, drenched in sweat from a nightmare worse than any he’d had since leaving the city. He shoved himself up and away from the dog, still curled on the bed beside him, and gasped for breath, rubbing his shaking hands over his face. Most of the time he couldn’t remember the dreams once he’d woken, but this time he was left with the horrible sensation of being trapped somewhere, unable to move and unable to speak - no, of speaking, of _screaming_ , but knowing that no one could hear. 

“I hear you,” he said aloud, clenching one hand in Satchmo’s fur. “I just don’t know - it’s a hard thing to say to a guy like Peter, you know? I screwed it up, and now he wants me to leave.” That stung more than Neal would’ve expected. He didn’t want to leave Lakeside, he realized. He was getting better - slowly but surely, he could feel himself _getting better_. He didn’t want to give that up. 

Maybe it was worth one more try. He had to take Satchmo back into town, after all. 

He got up off the bed. This time when he left the room, Satchmo followed him, though he whined when Neal closed the bedroom door firmly behind him and laid down at the threshold, pressed up against the door. 

Neal showered and changed. It was almost six o’clock by then, about the time he’d usually have started walking into town. He called for Satchmo with some trepidation, but to his relief the dog came trotting down the stairs. He’d found a leash for him in the store room, and he clipped it onto Satchmo’s collar. Peter hadn’t had him on a leash when he’d brought him out, but that was Peter, and Neal wasn’t at all sure that Satchmo would behave for him the way he did for Peter. Neal’s leg was better, the cane almost superfluous except on the long walks into town, but he couldn’t go chasing after Satchmo if he ran off. 

Fortunately, Satchmo was a dog of refined manners. He stayed at Neal’s side as they walked the lake path, only pausing now and then to mark a tree or sniff something or lap a bit of lake water. They turned off the lake path and took the one over the hill and down to the main road. Satch only strained at the leash once, when a deer appeared in the dense undergrowth to their left. The deer froze, then bounded away, and Neal was pretty certain that Satchmo would’ve been after her like a shot if he hadn’t had him on a leash. He relaxed after a few seconds, though, and they went on their way. 

Neal didn’t go straight into June’s once he reached the town. A quick glance through the window of the diner told Neal that Peter wasn’t there. He sat down on the low wall outside, and Satchmo lay down at his feet. They were both within sight of the sheriff’s office, and it wasn’t long before Peter came out. 

He crossed the street with a brief glance both ways and came to stand in front of Neal. They looked at each other. “I had something of yours,” Neal said, looking down at Satchmo. “Thought I should return him before I go.”

Peter’s face was impassive. “Thanks,” he said, holding his hand out for the leash. 

Neal handed it over. “Look,” he said, looking up at Peter. “All that stuff you found - it was a long time ago. I’m not in the life anymore. I did my time, I got out, I went straight. I swear.”

Peter’s expression didn’t crack. “Really. And you expect me to believe that -” He broke off, looking away, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “I don’t believe in ghosts,” he said at last.

Neal grimaced. “Neither did I, before this. Please hear me out,” he said. “You don’t have to be believe anything. But please, hear me out. For Elizabeth’s sake.”

Peter eyed him for a long moment. Finally, he nodded. 

Neal let out a long breath. “Thanks.” He looked away, up the street, where he could see that there were a few of the other townspeople watching them curiously. “Listen, can we go somewhere and talk? Somewhere less public?”

Peter nodded. “My place. Come on.”

Neal and Satchmo both followed Peter across the street to the sheriff’s office. Once inside, Peter opened a door Neal hadn’t noticed on his first visit to the office and gestured him up the stairs. The room over the sheriff’s office revealed itself to be a spartan apartment, with a single bed, half-heartedly spread up, a beat-up dresser, and a card table with two chairs. A kitchenette filled one corner, and Neal glimpsed a bathroom through a side door. 

“This is where you’ve been living?” Neal asked, somewhat disbelievingly. 

“Yep. Coffee? Beer? Glass of water”

“Just water, thanks.” 

Peter poured Neal a glass of water from the filter in the fridge and got a bottle of beer for himself. When he turned back, he must have caught sight of the look on Neal’s face. He sighed. “Look,” he said, seating himself at the card table and gesturing Neal into the other chair, “it was the easiest solution at the time, and then I just - I didn’t care where I lived or slept for a while.” Peter shrugged. “I know it’s depressing, but at least the commute isn’t long.”

“Well, that’s true enough,” Neal said. 

The two of them looked at each other. Neal didn’t know where to begin, but after a few seconds, Peter drew a deep breath. “Okay,” he said. “Explain to me what happened at the house earlier.”

Neal wrapped his hands around his glass of water. “I have reason - good reason - to believe that El - that Elizabeth is, for lack of a better word, haunting your house. Well, not all of it,” he added. “I don’t really feel her anywhere but the master bedroom.”

Peter was frowning. “Like I said, I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“And like I said, I didn’t either,” Neal countered. “I’ve never had an experience like this before. But - well, Moz has a theory. When I was mugged, the kid stabbed me in the thigh with a kitchen knife.” His scar twinged, and he put a hand on his thigh to show where the knife had gone in. “It nicked my femoral artery, and I lost a lot of blood at the scene.”

“What does this have to do -”

“I coded out in the ambulance,” Neal said, bluntly. Peter fell silent. “I was dead - not for very long, but long enough, Moz thinks. And now, don’t ask me how, but I can feel El in the house.” Peter didn’t say anything, so Neal pushed on. “She’s lonely and she misses you, and I don’t think she can move on until she gets to say good-bye. When you came in the bedroom this afternoon, she was so desperate for you to realize she was there that _I_ became desperate for you to realize it, too. I shouldn’t have told you like that, but I just - I had to.” Peter didn’t answer. Neal swallowed. “Could you really not feel anything?”

Peter shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?” Neal asked. “What about when you touched me?”

“I . . .” Peter hesitated. “Maybe.” He shook his head again, harder. “This is crazy. I can’t believe we’re even talking about this.”

“I know it’s crazy. I’m right with you on that. But please believe me.” Neal swallowed. “I promised her.”

Peter glanced at him sharply. “Promised her what?”

“That I’d try to help her. She can’t stay here, Peter. She isn’t meant to stay here.”

Peter shook his head. “Why should I believe you? Why should I believe any of this?”

Neal had no answer to that. He shrugged. “You don’t have to,” he said. “I don’t have any proof. But think about it, Peter. If I was trying to con you, wouldn’t I have chosen a story that was more believable? Not to mention handled it better,” he added, ruefully. Blurting it out like that had not been his finest moment. 

“I guess,” Peter said, slowly. 

“Please, Peter. She needs you. Come back out to the house. Not today,” Neal added, when Peter visibly flinched at the idea, “but tomorrow or in a couple of days. I’ll talk to Moz - he seems to know a lot about this sort of thing. And we’ll see what we can do.”

Peter just looked at him for a long time. Neal wondered what he’d say if Peter said no - if there was anything he _could_ say. But to his relief, Peter nodded at last. 

“So I can stay?” Neal said. 

“Yeah,” Peter said. “You can stay. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t jumped to conclusions.”

Neal shrugged. “It’s okay. I know it’s a lot to take in.”

Peter snorted. “No kidding.” He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face and looking tired. “Listen, I don’t think I’m up for dinner at June’s tonight.”

“Do you have anything here to eat? I could bring you takeout.” Belatedly, Neal reigned in his urge to help, recognizing that it might not be quite normal for someone who’d only known Peter for such a short time. Though come to think of it, that ship had probably sailed about the time Neal had first realized he could feel El’s thoughts. 

“No, I’m okay. I’ll make a sandwich, maybe heat up some soup.”

Neal nodded and stood. “Okay, well . . . I’ll see you soon?”

“You will,” Peter said, looking at him steadily. Neal decided that was good enough. 

Despite the fact that he’d decided only yesterday that he might be better off avoiding June’s for a while, Neal found himself there after leaving Peter’s apartment. He sat at his usual booth, with that day’s rather battered copy of _The New York Times_ , and was relieved when the high school girl who helped June on weekends came to take his order, rather than June herself. He didn’t think he could deal with any pointed glances just then. 

His peace didn’t last long, however. Within ten minutes, the door opened and Diana came in. She glanced around and made a beeline for Neal’s table. “What the hell happened?” she demanded, before she’d even sat down.

“Hi Diana,” Neal said, ironically. “Care to take a seat?”

“Don’t be a smartass, Caffrey. Peter went out fishing with you this morning, and he came back white as a sheet and wouldn’t talk to me about what happened. What the hell did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Neal said, irritated by her accusatory tone. He knew he was a relative stranger in this town, but it still rankled. “Peter’s fine.”

“He wasn’t fine this afternoon.” Diana planted both hands flat on the table and leaned in. “I don’t know if you realize this, Neal, but Elizabeth’s death almost killed him. He is _finally_ back in one piece after a year, and the last thing he needs is you waltzing into town and messing with his head.”

“I’m not - you know what?” Neal said, abruptly sick of it all after what had already been a very trying day. “Think what you want. I don’t care.” He stood up and tossed a ten dollar bill on the table, enough to cover the food he wasn’t going to stay and eat, and left. 

He walked too fast on the way home, and by the time he reached the house his leg ached fiercely. As he rounded the final bend in the lake path that brought the house into view, he realized it wouldn’t have mattered how fast he’d walked. Diana, with her patrol car, would’ve beaten him there no matter what. 

She was leaning against the hood, and next to her Neal could see two containers of take-out. He sighed, slumping and leaning heavily on his cane. “Diana, please, I really can’t -”

“I’m sorry, Neal,” she said. “I got worried when Peter seemed so upset this afternoon, but I shouldn’t have come at you like that.”

“Thank you,” Neal said sincerely. 

“Now. You going to tell me what happened?”

As though she’d ever believe him if he did. “Nothing happened,” Neal muttered, opening the front door of the house and letting her precede him inside. 

She turned to him, takeout containers in her arms. “I don’t believe you.”

Neal winced. “I don’t know what you -”

“Don’t play stupid with me.”

“This is a fun conversation,” Neal said. “I don’t at all regret inviting you into the house.”

To her credit, Diana looked somewhat contrite. “Sorry,” she said. “Come on, let’s eat before it gets cold.”

They ate at the dining room table, because it was too chilly in the evening now to enjoy the deck. Diana let him stew until she’d finished her burger and was picking at her fries. “So,” she said. “What happened? Because I know something did.”

Neal gave up and decided to go with a version of the story that was close enough to the truth to be believable, but that left out all the really strange parts. “Peter came out and we went fishing. Afterward, I went up to the house, and Satchmo ran in behind me. He ensconced himself in the master bedroom, and I couldn’t get him to move, so Peter had to come in and try. He kind of freaked out. So if you want to be pissed at someone on Peter’s behalf,” he added, more sharply than he’d intended, “it’ll have to be Satchmo.”

Diana pressed her lips together. “I’m sorry.” Neal shrugged. “I thought - well, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve clearly got a crush on Peter, and I thought -”

“That I tried to kiss him, and he had some sort of homophobic panic attack?” Neal supplied. “I’m not an idiot. Peter’s straight, and even if he weren’t, he’s still in love with someone who died a year ago.”

Diana eyed him for a moment, then took a sip of her soda. “Well,” she said, “you’re half right. He’s definitely still in love with Elizabeth.”

Neal blinked at her. She gave him a smile that might _almost_ have been called a smirk. “What?” he said. 

“Well, I should probably preface this by saying that I didn’t know Peter before he was with Elizabeth,” she said. “They’d been married five years already when I first met him. But when I came out to him, he told me that before he met El, he’d dated a man for a couple of years. It was the nineties and the Bureau wasn’t as enlightened as it is now, so he had to keep it really quiet. I think that put a strain on the relationship.”

Neal had no idea what he was supposed to say to that. “I . . . didn’t know.”

Diana gave him a look. “I know you didn’t, Caffrey. That’s why I told you.”

Neal shrugged. “It doesn’t change anything.” Peter was still in love with Elizabeth, as Diana herself had said. Neal knew better than to try to compete with her. There was no possible way he’d ever win, and he’d only break his heart trying. 

Diana sighed. “I guess not. If it helps, I wish it did. I like you, Caffrey. I think you’d be good for Peter.”

Neal gave her a weak smile, surprised to find that that did mean something to him. “Thanks.”

Diana didn’t stay long once they’d finished eating. After she left, Neal cleaned up from their dinner and sat down in one of the recliners with his sketchpad. He could see the closed door to the master bedroom from where he sat, and for a long time he just stared at it. He didn’t know what to do with the strange mix of pity and sadness and envy that was swirling in his stomach. He never thought he’d find himself jealous of a dead woman, but he was. Jealous because Peter Burke loved her with every fiber of his being, and that left no room in his heart for Neal.

This wasn’t lust, Neal realized suddenly. It wasn’t a schoolboy crush. He was _in love_ with Peter Burke.

 _Damn_ it.

***

Over the next week, Neal kept his distance from Peter. That wasn’t easy; Neal hadn’t quite realized just how much time he’d been spending with Peter, or how his entire routine in Lakeside had come to revolve around Peter’s own. Avoiding him left Neal with a lot of time on his hands. He tried to use it to paint, but he just ended up painting over everything he tried. He had a little more luck with his camera; the fall foliage around the lake was in its full glory, and he got a couple good shots of deer and ducks and, one time, a fox that was creeping along the shoreline. The pictures were pretty, but they weren’t the gritty industrial landscapes and black-and-white portraits he was known for. He had the feeling he knew what Moz would say if he suggested showing them at the gallery. 

Moz was far more interested in the ghost than in Neal’s art, anyway, whenever they talked. He was apparently doing a lot of reading in his free time, but it seemed that most of what he’d found boiled down to what Neal already suspected: He had to find a way to give El what she wanted. “She wants to say good-bye to Peter,” Neal said, with not a little frustration. “But she can’t do that if Peter won’t come out here.”

Moz sighed. “Far be it for me to defend a member of the law enforcement-industrial complex -”

“Is that even a thing?”

“- but give him some time. It’s a lot to take in if you’ve spent your entire life within the mundane confines of what’s scientifically provable.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Neal said. “And if he does eventually agree to come back out? What does your reading say I should do then?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Moz said. “What helps in one case isn’t going to help in another. You’re going to have to go with your gut.”

Neal sighed. “Great. Thanks.”

This was easier said than done, since Neal’s feelings toward both Peter and Elizabeth seemed to get more complicated by the day. He found himself more reluctant than he had been to venture into the master bedroom. He wasn’t sure why, though he thought his jealousy might have something to do with it. He didn’t particularly want El to know - if that was even possible - that he was in love with her husband. But he also felt guilty for leaving her all alone when he knew that she was lonely, and so on Thursday, after coming home from a later than usual dinner in town, he went in and sat on the bed.

He tried to empty his mind of everything he felt, tamping down on his own feelings and focusing on the ones that he was pretty certain weren’t his: the sadness and fear, loss and desperation, and . . . envy? Neal thought at first that that had to be him, but the longer he sat there, the more certain he became that it wasn’t. 

He winced. This was why he’d avoided coming in here for so long. He wasn’t particularly eager to find out what a jealous ghost might do. “You don’t need to be jealous,” he said aloud. “I’m not . . . I would never take Peter from you. I couldn’t.” But the feeling didn’t dissipate; if anything it got worse, and Neal forced himself to pay attention. El was envious, yes, and of him, but not - not for that reason. Then why? He forced himself to imagine what it must be like to be caught as she was between worlds. If they succeeded, eventually El would be gone - moved on, to wherever souls went after death. In a flash of intuition - and whether it had come from himself or from El, Neal wasn’t sure - he understood: El was jealous of him, yes, but not because she was worried about him taking Peter from her. She was jealous because he _could_ be with Peter. All El had left to look forward to was good-bye. 

Neal felt tears stinging the back of his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said in a hoarse voice. “And I’m sorry I stayed away. We’re going to figure this out, I promise you.” 

How, he didn’t know. He was starting to have some inkling, but he wasn’t sure if it was from watching too many Hollywood movies or if it was actually a viable plan. Either way, he didn't think Peter would ever agree if he put it to him directly; it’d have to happen organically, if it even could. 

Neal knew that nothing could happen while he and Peter were avoiding each other. The next night was Friday - classic movie night at the Lakeside Cinema - and Neal decided to go into town for it. Peter had said that he usually went, and anyway, they were showing _Casablanca_ , one of Neal’s favorites. The worst that could happen was that he didn’t see Peter, or that he saw Peter and Peter avoided him. The latter would sting, Neal knew, and both scenarios would be pretty disappointing, but he had to start somewhere.

He walked into town early enough to get dinner at June’s first, and then headed over to the theater. He was a few minutes early, but the theater was half-full already, there being an extremely limited number of things to do in Lakeside on a Friday night. He found a seat off to the side and settled in with his soda to wait. 

The theater had gone dark and the movie was starting when someone sat down next to him. Neal glanced over. It was Peter. Peter didn’t say anything, but he had a bag of popcorn, and he offered it to Neal. Neal wasn’t really hungry, having just eaten, but he took a handful anyway, and gave Peter a small, somewhat hesitant smile in the dark. 

The movie was every bit as good as Neal remembered, but he was hopelessly distracted throughout, hyper-aware of Peter sitting beside him. The two of them in a dark theater, watching one of the great romantic classics, sharing a bucket of popcorn - it was all much too date-like. Neal had to remind himself that even if it felt that way to him, Peter didn’t think of it that way at all. None of this was about Neal, not really.

It was a relief when the credits rolled and they were able to stand and file out, behind half the town. In the few weeks that Neal had been in Lakeside, the night air had gone from being crisp to being cold, and few people lingered outside the theater. Neal and Peter waited until everyone else had gone, and then, finally, they looked at each other. Neal cleared his throat. “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” Peter said. “I’m sorry I haven’t come back out to the house. It’s just - it was a lot to process.”

Neal nodded. “Yeah. I’m sure you didn’t half-believe me, either.”

Peter shook his head. “I do believe you. Or at least, I believe that you believe it. You wouldn’t - you wouldn’t lie to me about this.”

“No,” Neal said softly. “I wouldn’t. Even if I do have a bit of a checkered past.”

Peter winced. “I shouldn’t have said what I did about that. I didn’t mean it.”

Neal shrugged. “You weren’t wrong. I did do a lot of things I shouldn’t have when I was younger. But I did my time, and when I got out, I decided I wasn’t going back.” Peter nodded but didn’t say anything. Neal took a deep breath. “Are you ready to come back to the house with me?”

Peter nodded. “I think so.”

“Tomorrow, maybe?” 

“Actually,” Peter said, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant, “I was thinking I might come back out with you tonight. No time like the present, I guess. Unless you’d rather wait.”

Tonight was sooner than Neal had expected. He’d thought he’d have more time to get used to the idea of doing what he thought he’d have to do. But he’d waited all week, and really, it wasn’t going to get any easier with time. “All right,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

Neal had walked into town, thinking he’d walk back, but it was colder than he’d expected and his bad leg was starting to ache. He didn’t argue when Peter suggested they take his truck instead. The two of them climbed into the cab together, with Satchmo, whom Peter had retrieved from his apartment, wedged between Neal’s feet. Neither of them spoke during the brief drive. Neal was reviewing the slight glimmer of a plan that he’d formulated over the last week, wondering if he had the courage to try it out and what he’d do if it didn’t work. Or, maybe even more nerve-wracking, what he’d do if it _did_.

When they arrived at the house, Satchmo climbed over Neal in an ungainly mess of fur, enthusiasm, and sharp nails to bolt as soon as Neal opened the truck door. Neal could hear more than see him, running around and sniffing things, but when he unlocked the front door, Satchmo immediately pushed his way in and ran up the stairs. 

Neal turned to look at Peter. “You ready?” he asked. 

“No,” Peter said. “But I guess I have to be.”

“You don’t,” Neal said. “If you’d rather wait a few more days, we can.”

Peter shook his head. “You said . . . well, I guess you didn’t say, but she’s suffering, isn’t she? Staying here, waiting for me?” Neal gave a brief nod. “Then I’m ready. I never - I never wanted that.”

“She knows that,” Neal said, and then, swallowing his own fear, held out his hand. Peter stared at it for a moment before reaching out to take it. Together, they climbed the stairs. 

Satchmo had already shoved his way into the bedroom and curled up in the middle of the bed, with the tip of his tail over his nose. Peter stopped in the threshold, and Neal, still gripping his hand, stopped with him. 

“She was lying in here,” Peter said. “I came home for dinner, and I thought she was taking a nap. The last time I talked to her, she’d said she had a headache and was going to lie down for a while. But it was after six, and I thought, ‘If I let her sleep, she won’t be able to sleep tonight.’ So I went to wake her up, and . . . she was already cold.”

“Peter,” Neal whispered, tightening his grip on Peter’s hand. 

“Can she hear me?” Peter asked. “If I talk to her, can she hear me?”

“I don’t know,” Neal said. “I talk to her sometimes, but I’m not sure if she hears me or just sort of knows how I feel. But I think you should, if that’s what you want to do.”

That was clearly the right thing to say. Peter went inside the room. Neal trailed him. “I’m sorry,” Peter said. “I’m sorry I left. I just - I couldn’t stay. All I could think about was you, was us, and -” Peter’s voice broke. “I miss you so much. I’m sorry I made you wait so long for me to come back. And - and I should’ve come home that day when you told me you weren’t feeling well. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” A tear slipped down Peter’s cheek. 

Neal pushed Satchmo off the bed, and to his relief this time the dog went willingly, even if only as far as the doorway. Then he tugged Peter down to sit on the bed. “Peter, you couldn’t have stopped it. You couldn’t have known.”

“I know, I just -” Peter took a deep, trembling breath. “I’ve always been sorry for that, and I didn’t think I’d get to tell her.” He looked at Neal. “What do I do now?”

“Can you feel her?” Neal could. She was sad that Peter was sad, and so frustrated that she couldn’t comfort him herself. 

Peter frowned. “I - I don’t know.”

“Try closing your eyes,” Neal said, and Peter did so. Neal did the same and drew in a deep breath. This was the part that frightened him. He should have tried it before now, he thought, just to know if it could work. He hadn’t, because part of him hadn’t wanted to know; the idea was too strange. But now, with Peter right in front of him and El so frustrated and desperate, he realized he couldn’t resist on his own account. 

He let his mind empty, stopped trying to hold on to a sense of himself. And then, as he’d expected - feared - hoped - El rushed in, filling him, pushing Neal himself off to one side, relegating him to the role of observer in his own body. 

He had a brief moment of panic - _what if El decided she didn’t care to give his body up afterward?_ \- but he felt himself immediately soothed and reassured. This was El, he thought, unsure of whether the thought came from her or from him, and then decided that at the moment, that hardly mattered; maybe the distinction didn’t even exist. They knew each other, more intimately than Neal had ever known anyone. She wouldn’t betray him like that. She wanted one last moment with Peter, the chance to say good-bye. That was all. 

“El?” Peter whispered. 

“Yes, it’s me, hon. Keep your eyes closed, all right?” Neal heard himself say. 

Peter kept his eyes closed. El put Neal’s hand on the side of his face, cupping his cheek and jaw, and then she leaned in and kissed him. Peter responded without hesitation, as though it were his wife kissing him, not Neal, as though he didn’t even notice the differences - that Neal’s hair was short where El’s had been long or that his body was hard where El’s must have been soft. He kissed El with a tenderness that made Neal ache. Then he slowly pushed her - pushed Neal - back to lie on the bed. His fingers reached for the buttons of Neal’s shirt, started undoing Neal’s clothing. Neal felt his body responding - not at all how El’s own would have, but Peter didn’t seem to notice. He still had his eyes closed, was still kissing El. Kissing El, in Neal’s body. 

It was, without a doubt, the strangest experience of Neal’s life. He was in his body as Peter kissed him, he could feel everything - the rasp of stubble against his cheek, Peter’s hand stroking his hair, his own arousal - but he wasn’t the one who lifted his hand to the back of Peter’s neck, or who pressed his lips against the rapidly beating pulse in Peter’s neck. And he was torn between wanting to remember everything, because this was probably the only time he would ever get to be with Peter this way, and with wanting to close his eyes - metaphysically speaking - and hide until the experience was over. This wasn’t for him, after all. It was for Peter and El. 

But it turned out that he wasn’t that selfless. 

It was the sort of slow, sweet love-making that Neal had had with Kate once upon a time, and never again since. Peter kept his eyes closed, hiding his face in Neal’s neck or shoulder most of the time, but his thrusts against Neal’s body were slow and exquisite, and the endearments falling from his lips even more so. And El - El’s soul was bright, almost incandescent, and Neal knew that when this was over, she would go. He would miss her, he realized, and in a sudden flash of insight wondered what they might have been, all three of them, if everything had been different. As it was, they would all end up alone. 

Neal shoved the thought away. It was too sad a thought to have just then. If this was the last time Peter and El would ever be together in this life, then he didn’t want anything to taint it. 

When Peter came against him, it was with a sharply indrawn breath and a stuttering of his hips. The steady stream of words stopped suddenly, and then Neal felt his own orgasm rush over him. He - El - cried out, and in the darkness behind his closed eyes Neal saw something flare brightly and then go out, vanishing from this world. 

_Go in peace_ , he thought, and found himself alone in his body. 

Peter collapsed on top of him, gasping for breath. Neal stayed quiet, willing to let him believe that he was with El for just a little longer. He rolled to the side, allowing Neal to draw a full breath, but kept his arm wrapped firmly around him. “I love you, El,” he murmured into Neal’s shoulder. “I’ll always love you.”

Neal swallowed, then managed to find his voice. “I know, hon,” he murmured, remembering the endearment El had used with Peter. “I love you, too.” He stroked Peter’s hair, gently. “Sleep now.”

Peter slept. Neal managed to slide out from beneath him; he quietly left the room, stepping over Satchmo in the doorway, and went downstairs to shower and change his clothes. It was late now, after eleven, but Neal spent a few minutes under the hot spray wondering if he should just go. It wouldn’t take him long to gather all his things up. He could be back in the city by dawn. 

He might very well have done it, except when he came back upstairs he found Peter waiting for him in the kitchen. He’d washed up, it seemed, even if he didn’t have any fresh clothes to change into, and he’d made them both a drink. No beer this time; apparently the occasion called for whiskey on the rocks. Neal accepted the glass Peter handed to him and took a sip, appreciating the slow burn. 

“Did it work?” Peter asked, subdued. 

Neal nodded. “It worked.”

Peter closed his eyes and turned his face away. “Thank you,” he said. 

Neal shook his head. He left the kitchen and went to stand at the sliding glass doors that led out onto the deck. It was a clear night, with an almost full moon shining on the black waters of the lake. He let a minute or two go by in the silence, and then he said, “I think I should go.”

“What?” Peter said. “Why? Neal, I know the whole thing was . . . well, _strange_ doesn’t even begin to cover it, but it doesn’t have to change anything if we don’t let it.”

Neal took a sip of whiskey, tasting peat and smoke. He swallowed. “That isn’t why.”

“Then why?” Peter asked, his voice much closer than before.

Neal turned. Peter was only a few feet away. “Do you really want to know?”

Peter frowned. “Yeah, Neal, I really do.”

Neal set the glass of whiskey on the dining table. Then in two steps, he crossed to Peter and kissed him. Peter went so still that he might as well have been turned to stone. After a brief, chaste press of lips, Neal retreated, putting the table between the two of them. “That’s why,” he said. 

Peter was quiet. “If you have to go,” he said at last, “at least wait until tomorrow. Don’t leave in the middle of the night like you did something wrong. You haven’t done anything wrong, Neal.”

It meant more than it should have to hear him say that. Neal nodded. “Okay.”

The two of them looked at each other for a moment longer. Then Peter swallowed the last of his whiskey and called for Satchmo, who came easily now. The two of them went down the stairs and out the front door, and a moment later Neal heard Peter’s truck start. 

He sagged, leaning against the table, suddenly exhausted. Even if he had still wanted to leave then and drive back to the city, he didn’t think he could have done it - certainly not safely. 

He went to bed and woke early the next morning to pack up his things and put them in the back of his car. Part of him wished he could stay; he had been in Lakeside for less than a month, and he wanted to stay longer. But he knew it was for the best. After everything that had happened, there was no way that things could ever be normal again between himself and Peter. And if he couldn’t have breakfast with Peter and dinner with Peter and go fishing with him and watch old movies with him, then there just wasn’t much point in staying in Lakeside. 

He stopped at June’s on his way through town, to get a cup of coffee and a pastry to go. He sat at the counter this time; his leg had healed enough that that was an option, at least for a short time. 

June seemed to sense that something was different this morning. Maybe it was just that he was there an hour earlier than usual, ordering food to go. “Are you going somewhere, Neal?” she asked when she brought him his order. 

Neal nodded. “I’m heading back to the city. Thanks for all the meals, June. They were delicious.”

She smiled. “I’ll tell my son-in-law you said so.”

He pulled the keys to the house out of his pocket and slid them across to her. “Give these to Peter, would you?”

She frowned. “You don’t want to give them to him yourself?”

Neal shook his head. “We’ve already said good-bye.”

June slipped the keys into her pocket. “I’ll do that, then. Take care of yourself, Neal.”

He picked up his cup of coffee and his pastry in its plain white bag, then leaned across the counter to kiss her on the cheek. “You, too, June.”

He called Mozzie from the road. It was early, but there was a fifty-fifty chance that Moz and Sally would still be up, and he wanted a distraction as he drove away from Lakeside. “Hey, it’s me,” he said, when Moz answered, sounding tired but awake. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m on my way home.”

“You are?” Moz said, surprised. “Wait, why? I thought you were going to stay at least a full month.”

“So did I,” Neal said, “but I decided not to. I’m fine.”

“What about Elizabeth Burke?” Moz asked. “Is she fine?”

“Yeah, she is,” Neal said, voice going soft despite himself. “She’s moved on.”

“Good,” Moz said. “That’s good. How’d you do it?”

Neal swallowed. “I don’t . . . really want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Moz said, dubiously. Then, “Wait - did something happen with the fed?”

“ _Former_ fed,” Neal corrected. “And no, not exactly. But that’s part of why I decided it was time to come home.”

“I see.” Moz was quiet for a moment. “Are you going to be all right?”

“We’ll find out, won’t we?” Neal said. “But I think I am. I’m better, Moz. I really am.” He still didn’t have his painting back, but everything felt different this morning. _He_ felt different this morning, as though the experience the night before had somehow washed him clean of everything he’d been carrying around with him since the mugging. He didn’t think that everything would just go back to how it had been; he didn’t think things would ever be the same, in fact. But he could feel that spark of creativity flickering inside himself now. The next time he put paint to canvas, he thought, it would mean something. 

“Good. Come for dinner tonight? Sally’s got a job, but I’ll be here.”

“That sounds great, Moz. I’ll see you then.” Neal disconnected. Ten minutes later he made the turn onto the main highway, and less than a mile after that he passed a sign: _New York City 254 miles_. He turned the radio up and settled back into his seat for the long haul. 

_Fin._

. . . except for the timestamp I couldn’t resist writing.


	3. One Year Later

The invitation arrived in Peter’s mailbox a week and a half after he moved back to Brooklyn. The envelope was on heavy, cream-colored paper, the kind El used to use in her event planning business for very special occasions, and there was no address on it, just his name, _Peter Burke_ , scrawled across the front. He eyed it somewhat suspiciously, but he hadn’t been back in town long enough yet for anyone to be that annoyed with him; he took it upstairs with the rest of his mail - mostly junk - to open it in his apartment. 

Satchmo leapt up to greet him when he entered, trotting over to shove his face into Peter’s hand, clearly begging for a walk. Peter had felt guilty about moving Satchmo back to the city after so long upstate, but so far he seemed to be adjusting all right. 

“Just a minute, boy,” Peter said, ruffling Satch’s ears with one hand, and opened the invitation. 

Inside was a postcard with an art print - something wild and postmodern that El would’ve loved and Peter didn’t understand - and stamped across it was a name that made the bottom drop out of Peter’s stomach.

_Neal Caffrey._

He had a show opening in ten days at the gallery he owned and his friend ran. Peter wondered if Neal himself had delivered the invitation - if he knew Peter was back - but when he turned the postcard over he saw the note:

_This is entirely against my better judgment, but I’m sure he’d like it if you came. -M_

It wasn’t as though Peter hadn’t thought about contacting Neal. He’d thought about it every day since he’d been back, and Neal wasn’t hard to find. But it had just never seemed like quite the right time. First he was moving and his place was a mess, then he was settled into his apartment but in the middle of starting a business and working twelve hours a day - there was always a reason to put it off. 

Because the truth was that Peter was afraid of finding out that Neal had moved on. A year was a long time, and he hadn’t given Neal any reason to hope that he’d ever return his feelings. A year ago, Peter himself hadn’t been sure he could, with El’s death recent enough for it to still feel like a betrayal of her to want someone else. But now, a year later, he felt like he could maybe do something about it, if only Neal - beautiful, brilliant Neal - hadn’t found someone else in the meantime. 

The postcard gave him hope for the first time that maybe Neal hadn’t. In any case, he thought, if he was waiting for an engraved invitation, then he actually had one, and ignoring it would be foolish. Peter dumped the junk mail into the recycling and posted the invitation on his fridge with a magnet. _Well,_ he thought, _here goes nothing._

***

“Congratulations,” Moz said, tapping his champagne glass against Neal’s. “I think we’re safe in calling this a massive success.”

Neal nodded, glancing around the crowded gallery. He’d been afraid that no one would show, that he’d been gone from the New York art scene for too long, and that people would have forgotten him. But Mozzie had engineered an absolutely brilliant PR campaign, and by the time the show opened patrons were practically lined up for a look at the new Neal Caffreys on display. “Did you talk to the critic from the _Times_?” he asked.

“No, but I sent in Sally,” Moz said. “He’s going to write that you’re going in a new direction, darker, more metaphysical, but that it suits you. He’ll want an interview, you know.”

Neal nodded again. “I’m ready, I think.” He hadn’t spoken to any press since he’d returned from Lakeside, unsure about how to talk about everything that had happened to him - even leaving aside the less believable aspects of it. But starting to paint again had helped. And paint he had; he’d spent the first four months after he got back in a sort of creative furor, barely eating or sleeping unless Moz made him. Some of the paintings from that time were too private, too _obvious_ , to ever see the light of day. Others were here tonight. 

Moz told him to mingle and left to court a prominent blogger into doing a piece about Neal’s return. Neal started weaving through the crowd, speaking to patrons, shaking hands, giving short explanations of particular pieces when people asked him to. Three of the paintings had already sold, all for low five figures, and based on a few of his conversations, Neal thought two more would go by the end of the night. 

After a while, the back of Neal’s neck began itching with the nagging feeling that someone was watching him. He dismissed it at first - _everyone_ was watching him, after all - but it didn’t go away as the evening went on and the gallery gradually emptied. It persisted even after the last patron and the last critic had left, leaving just Neal, Mozzie, and the caterers. 

Or so he thought. 

It was then that Neal turned around and found Peter Burke standing right in front of him. Peter Burke, to whom Neal hadn’t spoken in a year, wearing a Brooks Brothers suit and holding a mostly empty glass of champagne. And he was smiling at Neal. 

“Hello, Neal,” Peter said. 

“Peter,” Neal managed. “What are you doing here?” 

“I got an invitation,” Peter said, pulling it from his pocket. 

_Mozzie_. Neal noticed that his friend, who would usually be hovering as the caterers broke everything down, was nowhere to be seen. Coward. “You drove all the way from Lakeside?”

“Ah,” Peter said, looking a little chagrined. “No. I was already in New York. I live here now.”

Neal looked at him blankly. “You do?”

“Yep. My old boss from the Bureau, Reese Hughes, just retired and started a private security consulting firm. He asked me to join him. I moved back three weeks ago. Diana’s the new sheriff in Lakeside,” he added with a smile. “She’s engaged to a woman in Rochester, so she decided to make the move permanent.” 

Neal didn’t know what to say, so he said the only thing that came to mind. “What about the house?”

“I haven’t sold it,” Peter said. “I moved back in after you left. I might still spend part of the year there, lend Diana a hand during the busy season. I haven’t decided yet. It’s all very recent.”

“And the invitation just showed up?”

“Yup. About a week and a half ago. Hand-delivered, too. I was glad to see you’d started painting again.” 

Mozzie was a rat-bastard, Neal decided. “Did you like the show?” he asked. 

Peter nodded. “I’m not an expert or anything, but I did like it. But I have to confess,” he added, “your art isn’t why I’m here.”

“Oh?” Neal said, hoping his voice didn’t betray his sudden attack of nerves. “Then why?”

“I wanted to ask you something. Would you have a drink with me?”

Neal hesitated. “I’m sure not sure that’s such a good idea, Peter.”

Peter caught and held his eyes. Neal’s mouth went dry. There was a warmth there that hadn’t been there - not for him, at least - a year ago. “I am,” Peter said quietly. “I’ve thought about you a lot, Neal.”

Neal didn’t know what to say to that. “I’ve thought about you a lot, too, Peter,” he admitted. Every day, in fact. Neal had thought he was moving on, but seeing Peter in the flesh brought it all back. And yet, “I’m still not sure this is a good idea.”

“I am,” Peter repeated, with perfect certainty. He seemed more certain about this, in fact, than Neal thought he himself had ever been about anything. “When Reese called me and said that he wanted me to come work with him, you know what my first thought was?” Neal shook his head. “ _If I move back to the city, I might see Neal again._ My mind was made up after that.”

Neal swallowed. “Really?”

“Yes,” Peter said. “Really. Will you have a drink with me?”

It was probably not a good idea. Neal doubted that they could ever get past what had happened a year ago, and even if they could - well, what did they have in common, really? But Peter was standing right in front of him, asking him for a drink, and it seemed like idiocy to say no. Maybe it wouldn’t work. But he had to find out. 

“Yes,” he said. “Thanks, Peter.”

***

They went to a wine bar that Neal knew, around the corner from the gallery, the sort of place with blue lighting and plush booths. Peter was just happy that the ambient noise level was low enough that they’d be able to talk without shouting. 

Neal waved to a couple people as they walked in and found a table. “People who were at the show earlier,” he explained, when Peter raised an eyebrow. 

Peter nodded. “I didn’t ask before, but how did it go?” 

Neal smiled, looking genuinely happy, rather than guarded, for the first time since he’d caught sight of Peter. “It went well. Mozzie was pleased.”

“Good,” Peter said, “that’s good.” He immediately kicked himself - _Good, that’s good_? - but Neal didn’t appear to notice. A waitress had appeared. Peter hadn’t even glanced at the menu yet, but that didn’t seem to matter. Neal ordered two glasses of some Californian pinot noir and a plate of olives and cheese. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” Neal said, when the waitress had left. “I didn’t get to eat much at the show. And you’ll like the wine, I promise.”

Peter shook his head. “No, it’s fine.”

Silence fell. Peter found himself playing with his napkin, wondering what he should say now. He’d been terrible with this sort thing his entire life. Dating El had been a huge relief, because she had never expected him to flirt; she’d taken charge from day one, and all he’d had to do was go along for the ride. Neal seemed wary, and Peter didn’t blame him, but he also didn’t know how to make it better. 

He still hadn’t figured it out when their wine arrived, but at least that gave them something to do. He and Neal toasted Neal’s show and Peter’s new business, and Peter took a fortifying sip. It _was_ good, he found, and said so. Neal beamed, and Peter smiled back, helplessly, and decided to throw caution to the wind. 

“Can I just - I’m terrible at this,” Peter confessed. “I always have been.”

“At what?” Neal asked, picking at his plate of olives and cheese, which had arrived with a basket of sliced bread.

“At - at flirting,” Peter said, “and dating and the whole - the whole _thing_. I don’t know how to do it, so can I just skip to the part where I’m honest with you?” El had always said that was where he did best. He couldn’t flirt, and he couldn’t play the game, but he could look someone in the eyes and lay his soul on the line. 

Neal sat back, looking interested but cautious. “Okay.”

“I would like us to get to know each other better,” Peter said. “What happened last year, that’s not something we can build a relationship on. I want to get to know you, without any ghosts. Metaphorical or real.”

Neal nodded, but he didn’t quite meet Peter’s eye. “And what about El?” he asked. 

Peter frowned. “What about her?”

“You still love her. I know you do.”

Peter didn’t know what to say to that, so he went with the truth. “Of course I do,” he said, and hated the way Neal flinched. “I will always love El. But that doesn’t mean I’ll never love anyone else. This last year - I _missed_ you, Neal. I only knew you a month, but you -” Peter shook his head. “You got under my skin. I don’t know how, but you did, and I missed you when you were gone.”

Neal was quiet. “I missed you, too. But after what happened last year - Peter, do you think you’ll ever be able to look at me and not see her?”

It was like being hit over the head, hard. It had never occurred to Peter that that was what Neal was afraid of. He’d done a pretty good job of taking the memory of that night and putting it into a little box in his head, only taking it out when he was prepared to really look at it. If he’d had it intruding on his daily life, he probably would have gone mad in three months. 

“Yes,” Peter said, and met Neal’s gaze steadily. “I can. I’m not interested in you because of the connection you had with El.” Neal gave him a somewhat disbelieving look, and Peter sighed. “Well, not in the way you think, at least. I was interested in you before I ever knew about that, but I couldn’t be honest with myself about it then. And then - she chose you, Neal. That means something.”

Neal shook his head. “She didn’t choose me, Peter. I was convenient, because I was there, and I’d happened to code out in an ambulance three months earlier.”

“ _No_ ,” Peter said. Neal glanced at him sharply. “I think it means more than that. If it had been someone else, someone neither of us felt anything toward, I don’t think she would’ve done it.”

“Maybe,” Neal said, rolling the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. “I guess we’ll never know.”

Peter sighed. “No, we won’t. And I’m not going to waste my life trying to figure it out. But that’s what I believe. I’m not trying to get to her through you, I swear to you that’s not what this is about. But it does mean something to me that you were the one she chose.” He paused, glancing away to take a sip of wine, mostly to give Neal a chance to absorb everything. Then he looked back, catching and holding Neal’s gaze. “Is that something you can live with?”

Neal said nothing for a few seconds. “Yes,” he said at last. “I think so.”

“Good,” Peter said. “Then I’d like to find out if the two of us might . . . be something. Have a future. I’m ready to find that out now.”

Neal let out a long breath, then slid his hand across the table to cover Peter’s. “I didn’t think I’d ever hear you say that. I didn’t think I’d ever even see you again. But I’d like to find that out, too.”

Peter turned his hand over and slid his fingers through Neal’s. Neal was right: he would never really know why or how El had chosen Neal as she had. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that they were here, now, choosing each other.

_Fin._


End file.
